


Sherlock Holmes and the Forsaken Prophet

by CordeliaFitzgerald



Series: The Hogwarts Deductions [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Harry Potter Next Generation, Hogwarts, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:32:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CordeliaFitzgerald/pseuds/CordeliaFitzgerald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Albus Potter all receive their Hogwarts letters in the same summer. During their first year of school, John will have to adjust to the idea of magic, Sherlock will try to step out of the shadow of his brilliant older brother, and Albus must come to terms with the year's unexpected twists. All is not well in the Wizarding world, however, and as new dangers arise from all different sources, unlikely alliances and a healthy dose of deduction will be necessary to get Hogwarts out of trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Not-So-Average Letter

John Watson was, for all intents and purposes, an average eleven year old boy. He did average things, like procrastinate on his assignments and tease his sister, although sometimes it seemed his sister was teasing him more. He was a bit short for his age, but averagely proportioned. He ate an average amount of food, was an average student, and spent an average amount of time running around outside re-enacting books, videogames, and TV shows. 

His family was relatively normal. He had a sister, Harriet, who had recently begun to insist everyone call her Harry, and who made his life interesting by always mixing up whether she was going to be nice to him or mean to him. He had parents who did everyday things, and who loved him and his sister very much. He dreamed of becoming a doctor, or a lawyer, and frequently went back and forth on which career path was “correct.” He lived in an average house, white with green shutters, a lovely garden to the side that his mother tended carefully, a garage full of car parts that his father said would be useful “eventually.” Everything about the Watson family was average and normal and content. 

And so, on an especially average day in July, with the smell of freshly baked cookies drifting listlessly out the window while John and Harry argued over who got control of the television, Mrs. Watson did not think anything of the letter that came in the post for her son. In fact, she didn't think of it at all, as she sorted through the mail and went to take the second batch of cookies out of the oven. 

"Harry, John!" she called out, and smiled to herself as she heard the arguments between them cease (well, probably only pause) as they rushed into the kitchen for their snack. She poured two glasses of milk, and set them down on the red checkered tablecloth. 

It wasn't until after the brother and sister had each eaten a couple cookies and downed their glasses of milk, and were about to resume their argument over the television, that Mrs. Watson even remembered to say, "Oh, John, you got a letter," and hand him the envelope. 

If Mrs. Watson had been paying slightly more attention to the mail her son received, she might have noticed that this was no ordinary letter – in fact, aside from a particularly hideous homemade fruit basket a second cousin had sent them once for Christmas, it was in all likelihood the strangest piece of mail the Watson home had ever received. For starters, it was in a parchment envelope, with a large and ornamented wax seal on the back. And the front – John's name ("Mr. J. Watson") and address were written neatly in dark ink, but there was something…strange about it. It was definitely not an average letter. 

With the third and final batch of cookies in the oven, it was time to clear up the kitchen. Mrs. Watson was an efficient baker, who believed in tidy workspaces and timely clean-up afterwards. She turned the radio on and scrolled through the stations until she found a lovely cello sonata to drown out the children arguing in the other room, and turned on the faucet to let the water get hot. 

But the children were not arguing. 

John had taken the letter from his mother, and wandered back to the room, where Harry immediately pounced on the remote and switched to her documentary. He turned it over in his hands, examining it. He didn't usually receive mail – this was definitely something unexpected, but like most eleven year olds, he was very excited about the prospect. The envelope felt heavy, and he couldn't help feeling like he should wait, savor this, and enjoy the idea of having a letter for a bit before he opened it and actually found out what was inside. For a moment, he worried that it wouldn't be very exciting, but given the unusual appearance of the envelope, he wasn't concerned for long. 

At this point, Harry had noticed that there was no argument about her preference for an observation of life on the Sahara, and turned around to see John still standing with the envelope. 

"Aren't you going to open it?" she asked, rolling her eyes at him. At the mature age of fifteen, Harriet Watson frequently found herself irritated with how seriously her younger brother took everything. She believed firmly that eleven was far too young an age to pretend you understood anything about life. 

"Yes, I am," John answered defensively. He wasn't sure he wanted to open the letter while Harry was there – his older sister had a way of trivializing the things that John held most dear, like the stethoscope he had received for his birthday last year, when he had gravely confided in his mother that he wanted to be a doctor, and could she please get him some "real medical supplies?" 

"Well then, what are you waiting for?" 

John knew that if he tried to explain that sometimes the idea of having something was nicer than actually having it, Harry would only laugh at him. She didn't ever seem to think the same way as John about anything. Sometimes he wasn't sure they were actually related; it was much nicer to think that Harry was an alien, or at the very least that she'd been accidentally switched with his real sister at birth. And now she was watching him, waiting, and he realized that he would have to open the letter right now or face Harry bothering him about it for the foreseeable future. Sisters were like that. 

So, with a small sigh, he turned the letter over and examined the seal and the letter "H" on the back of the letter, one last time, before he opened the envelope to pull out the contents. 

There were multiple pages inside, and as John read through them, he grew incredibly confused. He knew full well that Harry was watching his facial expressions, and tried to remain neutral, but the letter was unbelievable. 

"Dear Mr. Watson, 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." 

In that moment, John fought the urge to look up sharply. Witchcraft and Wizardry? He had never heard of a stranger idea than a school for magic. His first instinct was that this had to be a joke, that there was no way this was real. Magic belonged in books and stories, not in John Watson’s life. And yet something urged him to keep reading. 

"Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment." 

This prompted immediate shifting to the second of three pages in the letter. It contained a list of school supplies – a rather extensive list, at that. Reading through it, several things caught him off guard, starting with the uniform requirements. Work robes? So basically a dress. He was going to have to wear a dress. 

If this was a real thing. 

Which, of course, it was not. 

And the books…Magical Theory, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them…not to mention the names of these authors, stranger than any names he’d heard before. Adalbert Waffling? Bathilda Bagshot? These did not sound like names out of baby name books. 

After books, he needed a cauldron, a telescope – a wand. John was very taken with the idea of having a magic wand. His fingers clenched as if he were already holding it, and he started to hope very badly in the bottom of his stomach that this was not in fact a joke, that this could somehow be real. 

And where was he even supposed to get all of these supplies? John’s head was reeling so much that he hardly even noticed that he’d slipped into definitely thinking about this Hogwarts place in an affirmative way, and he actually felt deep disappointment when he read, “First years are not allowed to own broomsticks.” Broomsticks were, he assumed, for flying. He turned back to the first page. 

"Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.”

Owl? Where was he supposed to get an owl? John’s head was spinning. 

“Yours Sincerely,  
Emmaline Eaton  
Deputy Headmistress.” 

The third page contained a list of instructions; how to get to a place called Diagon Alley, how to locate Platform 9 ¾ (John was completely unconvinced that there could even be a platform numbered ¾, and he also did not believe that running into a brick wall like a lunatic was going to get him there), how to exchange money at a Gringotts Bank, how to purchase a pet, owl post… brief little snippets of more things than he knew how to process. 

Harry was still looking at him, and upon realizing that John had reached the end of his letter, she said, “So what’s with the face?” 

John looked at her, trying very hard to discern whether or not she was teasing him, whether all of this had been some prank making fun of his love for fantasy and adventure. But she looked genuinely curious, so he just said, “Something about a school.” 

“A school?” Harry responded. “So like, different from your current school? What do they, want you to transfer or something?” 

“Basically,” he said, slowly, flipping through the pages once again. Harry didn’t seem to find this especially interesting, as she shrugged and turned back to finally watch her program on the television. John knew then that it definitely wasn’t Harry playing a trick; she would definitely not let go so easily if she wanted him to get excited about something just to say, “You fell for it.” 

He couldn’t really think of anyone else who would come up with something so elaborate – from the parchment paper to the wax seal to the unusual names, there was an element to the whole thing that made it all seem awfully legitimate. And he doubted his parents would be so cruel as to make up something like this as a sort of game. So did that mean it all had to be real? He felt incredibly overwhelmed and just wanted some time to process the information, but he knew he should probably go talk to his mother about it. He wondered what she would say. 

And this was the reason why he sometimes preferred the idea of a letter to an actual letter. 

It was about this time that Mrs. Watson finished washing her dishes and turned off the faucet, then turned off the radio, and realized that her children were not arguing in the other room but in fact were being startlingly quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This is my first foray back into fan fiction in a while, and my first time writing Next Gen or Sherlock at all. I’m aware that I took some liberties with the ages of the Sherlock characters - at least in terms of timelines between Harry Potter and Sherlock. I'll try to distinctly state the age or year of each character as it becomes relevant, to avoid confusion. 
> 
> Sorry if it seems a bit slow for now, I'm still toying with how I want to set up future chapters, either each chapter devoted to a single character or splitting between perspectives. Do you prefer shorter chapters that stick to one point of view, or longer chapters that switch between multiple?
> 
> You’ll notice I didn’t put any ships in the description for this. It’s not that there isn’t going to be shipping eventually, I plan for this to become a thing. (Possibly a seven part series but don’t hold me to that...) But I don’t want to include all the ships in the description now because I don’t want you to anticipate them or expect them. There’s going to be some Johnlock though, don’t you worry your pretty little head. There's also going to be plenty of other ships, so also don't worry your pretty little head if you don't like Johnlock. 
> 
> Updates should come at least once a week, probably more often, but we'll see how writing goes and what the demand is. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, feel free to comment if you enjoyed it or y’know have something you want to say about it, I'd love to hear from you.


	2. An Especially Average Letter

Sherlock Holmes was in no way an average boy, and no one knew it better than he did. Except, perhaps, his mother, whose favorite activity was introducing him to people as, “Almost as smart as his big brother, Mycroft!” Each time it happened, Sherlock would sit quietly and stare at his hands, making mental lists of things that needed to be organized in his room, or the things he could do to pass the time until he could move out of this house and live his own life. 

The summer he received his Hogwarts letter was destined to be a trial in every way. Already struggling at home, Sherlock knew that it was coming, that it had to be coming, and the idea of that new pressure stressed him out more than he cared to admit. It was frustrating to know that soon an entirely new set of expectations was going to be thrust upon him, and he would have to work within an entirely new set of parameters. 

To be sure, Sherlock had spent a great deal of time thinking about what Hogwarts would be like – he frequently wondered where the best places to hide from idiotic questions would be, and he fully anticipated being one of the only first year students who understood the value of the library – what an excellent resource for research, he would say to himself. Truly excellent. And he was already looking forward to potions classes; he wondered how soon he would be permitted to design his own experiments and create his own potions? He would have to talk to the potions master, but he wasn’t anticipating too much of a problem. 

Not only was this summer a time for Sherlock’s Hogwarts letter, it was also the summer leading up to Mycroft’s seventh and final year at the wizarding school, and he had recently received a letter informing him that he would be Head Boy for the following school year. Upon this news, Mummy had practically fainted from joy, Mycroft grew even more resolved to one day become the Minister of Magic, and Sherlock locked himself in his room and re-read the Q volume of his complete encyclopedia set that he’d received, brand new, in hard cover, for Christmas. 

It was an excellent set of magical encyclopedias, each letter automatically updating entries as new information became available, as well as gaining additional articles. There was an even more compact set that could be purchased where there was one book that would show whatever articles you needed to read at the time, but Sherlock enjoyed having twenty-six volumes, plus an index, at his fingertips for research purposes. And for distraction purposes, such as when Mycroft let new positions of power get to his head. 

Sitting sullenly by the window, Sherlock did his best to pretend he wasn’t nervous. The idea of Mycroft being Head Boy just made him more eager to _not_ be at Hogwarts. A very small part of him (not big enough to actually want it, but enough to consider it) wondered if it might be a bit nicer to just be a squib, and have no pressure to go and be a student at Hogwarts whatsoever. He had never met a squib, and he heard it was incredibly unfortunate, to live your life surrounded by magic and not be able to participate in the action. Sherlock, however, did not think it would be all that horrible. Perhaps it was because he was clever, or perhaps it was because he was particularly sick of his family, Sherlock imagined he could handle being a squib quite nicely, and find all sorts of ways to manage in the magical world. 

With a small frown, he put the “U” volume of his encyclopedia away and pulled out “S.” Turning towards the middle-ish back, he found the entry for squibs and began to read again, tapping out a rhythm with his fingers against the window pane he was seated next to. 

He was so busy tapping his fingers and reading a set of statistics about squibs born in the United Kingdom in the past twenty years that he did not immediately notice an owl outside his window, tapping back in a reciprocal rhythm to his own finger. After a stretch, though, as the owl grew a bit impatient and sped up its tapping, the small, wiry boy did notice the bird, and quickly opened his window. 

A familiar parchment was attached to the owl’s leg, and Sherlock didn’t even want to bother reading it; it was so painfully obvious from the address written onto the envelope who it was from, even though he hadn’t turned it over to observe the wax seal, let alone actually open and read the letter. 

He detached the letter and turned it over in his hands a few times, looking down with a mixed expression of distaste and fascination. If not for the possibility of that most excellent library and time away from Mummy, Sherlock would have been tempted to hide the letter and pretend he had never received one. Even as that thought occurred to him, however, he knew it would not work – he was clever for an eleven year old, but Sherlock Holmes did not assume he could trick his mother into believing he was not magical. 

Even if he had made the decision to hide the letter, it would not have been a very long-lived one, because at that moment, Mycroft tucked his head in the door without knocking. (One thing Sherlock had extensive problems with was the lack of knocking on doors in the Holmes house; how was one supposed to think about anything when they were constantly being interrupted for useless things like planning dinner menus and answering trivial questions.) 

“Mummy wants to know if you’re -” Mycroft stopped speaking, observing immediately the paper in Sherlock’s hands. “Well, well! What have we here!” 

The one thing that bothered Sherlock more than people in his family not knocking on doors was people in his family proceeding to enter his room without him giving them leave to do so; as such, he was incredibly agitated when Mycroft crossed over to him and pulled the letter out of his hands. 

“You haven’t opened it yet?” he asked, incredulously. “You know, when I received my Hogwarts letter, it was a moment of great pride for me – not every witch or wizard has the privilege to attend such a school, but of course, the Holmes family is one of great tradition and we have always been…” 

Sherlock tuned Mycroft out, and instead focused on creating a list of the objects he would be able to take to school with him. Obviously his violin, and although a small part of him wondered if his classmates would object to the noise, a larger part of him did not care. His encyclopedias had to come to school, regardless of if they had any in the library. 

“Sherlock?” 

He realized that Mycroft was looking at him expectantly. “What?” 

“You really should just open it, and then you can go tell Mummy all about it.” 

Sherlock knew the tone of voice his older brother was using; slightly mocking and yet incredibly serious, it was clear that while Mycroft also grew irritated and impatient with the intensity of Mummy Holmes, he had grown a bit better at handling it – possibly because he spent so much time away from home, at school. 

“I’ll open it when I’m ready to open it,” Sherlock said, tersely. He did not want a big production made of the event, because it wasn’t even really that much of an event to begin with, and already things were not going according to plan. 

“It’d better be soon, because I’ll tell her if you don’t.” 

The threat was effective; quickly, the younger boy broke the seal and pulled out his letter, skimming first the cover letter and then the enclosed supplies list. 

“As anticipated,” he said, dryly. He was already quite tired of this interaction. “Now, may I go back to my research?” 

Mycroft shook his head and sighed. “You’re going to have a hard time adjusting to Hogwarts,” he said, a bit judgmentally, and with the air of someone who has seen and lived a great deal. (Sherlock was not particularly impressed; he did admire his older brother’s intellect, but he resented it at the same time, and thus advice was usually unwelcome.) “You should get some real interaction with people, make some friends. Luckily for you, I’ll be around this year to make sure you don’t run into any problems.” 

“Oh, how lucky for me,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes lightly. 

“If you want, I can even tell Professor Eaton to keep a special eye on you too – she’s really a lovely woman, cares about the students. When I first started at Hogwarts, I must say I wasn’t certain how I felt about a Hufflepuff being the Deputy Headmistress – how could she possibly handle discipline, being so…you know, Hufflepuff in nature? But she’s really fair-minded about everything, never plays favorites – it was really terrible of me to judge her in advance. Anyway, I can make sure she’s watching out for you.”

Sherlock knew he was not particularly adept at interacting with others his own age; they didn’t understand how the connections in his mind happened so quickly, and he was baffled that they processed things slowly, and there was usually a clash that resulted in awful name calling. Just the promise of a professor – the Deputy Headmistress, to make matters worse – looking after him at school was utterly repulsive to him. He shook his head firmly. “Won’t be necessary,” he said. “Now would you please go away? I have some reading to do.” 

When the door closed behind Mycroft, the younger Holmes contemplated locking it, but he knew it would be useless. He was already counting down – in a few moments, Mummy would be bursting through the door to give him a congratulatory hug, extol the virtues of Ravenclaw House, and begin planning a celebratory dinner for her second Hogwarts boy. 

The prospect was sickening. Sherlock was certain he would rather be bitten by a large spider. Turning a few pages back in his “S” volume, he found the entry for spider and began to read about all the types of arachnids that prevent him from needing to interact with his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing eleven-year-old Sherlock is ridiculously challenging... my apologies, hopefully it will get easier once they arrive at school and he starts interacting with his peers. Not that I don't enjoy writing Sherlock, it's just much different than John, and is going to take some getting used to. Especially as an eleven year old. Next up, a chapter with Albus, then off to Hogwarts! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. The Middle Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a bit longer to get up than anticipated! It's been pretty busy on this end of things, what with college being a thing that I have to do to be a real person in the real world. But here is Albus, and I promise to be more regular about updates in the future.

Albus Severus Potter was a middle child. He tried not to let it bother him, but frequently he felt it put him at a strong disadvantage in terms of life. For example, he received hand-me-downs from his older brother, James, not because their family lacked money but because it was “more practical,” according to his mother. And he couldn’t remember a time when Lily, his baby sister, hadn’t been everyone’s favorite. James was known for being daring and carefree, just as prone to getting in trouble as he was to talking his way out of it, while Albus was timid and doubted himself frequently. And even though Lily constantly took issue with anything that did not go her way, and had yet to develop any patience, she was still adored by everyone. Albus, on the other hand, frequently felt he was made the scapegoat for both his older brother’s pranks and his younger sister’s demands. 

After all, he was simply Albus – a scrawny boy with a name far too big for him, first middle and last each carrying a separate but equally grave weight that he frequently felt the need to live up to. Perhaps his only claim to fame was looking the most like his father out of the trio, and even with that taken into account, he never felt particularly special or stand-out. 

This made the prospect of Hogwarts a very stressful one. Having read the letters James sent home the previous years, and heard all sorts of stories from his parents, cousins, aunts and uncles, there was a wealth of information about the magical school and all the adventures in store. But every time Albus thought about school, he felt an enormous wave of doubt, his stomach clenched into knots, and he found it very difficult to truly enjoy the idea. 

Indeed, up until actually receiving his letter conforming his magical ability, Albus was secretly very worried that he was a squib, and no letter would come for him. He would stay at home and watch his cousin Rose go off to her first year of Hogwarts without him. He would grow separated and more isolated from her and his other relations as the years went on, he would have to attend muggle school, while knowing the whole time the world of magic that he was missing out on – he would become so bitter and forgotten that he would never find someone to love him, and he would try to keep cats but even the cats wouldn’t like him, and one day in a tragic moment of non-magical daily life, he would fall and hurt himself and be unable to contact the proper help, and die by himself, and not be found for days. 

Albus tended towards fits of dramatic paranoia. 

Fortunately, however, on a bright afternoon in July, a large owl swooped by the kitchen window and left a letter with a familiar wax seal. Ginevra Potter was sitting reading through proofs for the latest issue of the Daily Prophet when it arrived, and she picked up the envelope with a knowing smile. Harry would be at work until later in the day, but Ginny, being that wonderful kind of mother who could tell when her children were trouble no matter how they tried to hide it, understood how much this letter’s arrival had been stressing Albus out. She decided her husband would not mind if she passed on the letter now instead of waiting until later. 

Lily, who was sitting on the kitchen floor dutifully dressing and undressing her enchanted paper dolls, looked up at her mother curiously. “What’s that, Mumma?” she asked, eagerly. “Is it for me?” 

Ginny shook her head with a smile. “Not yet, Lil – it’s your brother’s Hogwarts letter.” 

This was enough to make Lily put down her dolls in frustration. “It’s not fair,” she said, with a pout. “I wanna go to Hogwarts too! Why do they both get to go before me?” 

“Because you’re the youngest,” Ginny said, gentle but firm. “Trust me I know what it’s like – remember, I’m the youngest out of all my siblings. Just be glad you only have to wait for two brothers before you, and not six.” 

She found her son sitting by himself in the den, absent-mindedly flipping through the Quidditch guide he’d received for his birthday. Ginny paused in the doorway a moment to watch him – Albus was a different one, she knew, but that made him all the more special to her. It was difficult to know how sensitive he was, and yet know that she wouldn’t be able to protect him at Hogwarts the way she could when he was home. In the last year or so, she had even tried to ease herself away from protecting him, because no one knew better than she how dangerous it could be to be lonely at school and not know how to handle it – and though it made her feel better to know that there would be no journals that wrote back, no lingering parts of Lord Voldemort to bring her children into danger, Ginny worried that the social setting at the wizarding school would be even more dangerous for her boy. 

“Delivery for you,” she said gently, smiling as Albus looked up eagerly. For the last few weeks, Ginny had been very careful with how she started conversations because she knew he was waiting for the letter she now extended towards him. “It just came.” 

Albus, who had actually finally managed to find a decent distraction in the world of Quidditch, took less than a second to process what his mother was handing him. He jumped up, book forgotten, to snatch the paper eagerly out of her hands – but before he tore the paper open, he looked up cautiously. 

“It’s definitely for me?” he asked, slowly – a small part of him worried that it might be a trick, or there might be a mistake. After all, he had yet to display anything that he considered a good indicator of magical power, accidental or intentional. 

“Of course it’s for you, Alby,” his mother said warmly. “Look at the address. Aren’t you going to open it? I figured we didn’t need to wait for your father to get home, but I’ll let you be the first to tell him.” 

Without waiting any longer, Albus opened the envelope and pulled out the pages enclosed within. 

“Dear Mr. Potter,” he read to himself. “We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…” 

Quickly, and without realizing he was holding his breath, Albus scanned the rest of the letter and looked up at his mother, beaming. “I really get to go,” he said, the relief evident in his voice. 

“Of course you do, silly boy,” Ginny responded. “Did you really think you wouldn’t get to? All your family members have gone before you – I’ve always known you would be one of the brightest students to join the school since your Aunt Hermione.” 

Albus blushed at the compliment. “I’ve gotta go tell James,” he said. “And write to Rose!” The prospects of telling his older brother and his favorite cousin were very exciting to him, but he did hug his mother quickly before running off to his room. 

“Thanks, Mum,” he whispered into her shoulder. Ginny smiled, and kissed his tangle of dark hair gently. 

“Any time, kiddo,” she whispered back. “Now go be excited – I’ll call you when Dad gets home.” 

He took the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door to James’ room without even bothering to knock. Albus always felt a deep sense of awe when he entered James’ room. Although his brother was only a year older than he was, the room boasted a maturity that Albus could only aspire to. Holyhead Harpies posters (from the days when their mother played on the team) lined the walls, alongside a picture of a dragon breathing fire from Uncle Charlie, and a touring poster of The Wizard Hour, James’ favorite band. A large bookshelf was mostly filled with chess strategy guides and books about magical creatures. It was, for all intents and purposes, an ideal room. 

As he walked in, the older boy looked up startled, his brown curls flying out of his eyes. “What do you want?” he asked. 

Albus knew well that James disliked being interrupted when he was in the middle of important work – and today it looked like that important work was practicing chess. But this was super important, he told himself. 

“I got my Hogwarts letter!” he explained, out of breath from the whole moving-quickly-up-the-stairs thing. This was a greatly vindicating moment for Albus, because of the number of times James had teasingly hinted that perhaps the younger boy’s deepest fears were in fact valid. 

James shrugged impatiently. “Cool,” he said, without much flourish. “I knew you’d get it sometime soon. Now if you’d excuse me, I have some practicing to do.” 

Frowning to himself, Albus left the room – James’ attitude now did not at all match the taunting from before. He’d expected a bit more surprise or excitement, a bit more, “Good for you, Alby!” 

He mumbled a thank you, and moved into his own room. By comparison to his brother’s, Albus’ room looked relatively empty. His bookshelves were covered in books but they didn’t really fall into any theme or special category, and were not well organized. He kept all of his toys and games well organized and stored away – he disliked anything that was out of place. Yes, the room was well-suited to his own tastes, but Albus couldn’t help but feel the room never quite seemed “lived in.” To make matters worse, he was never sure exactly what would look best on his walls, so he tended to put nothing up, and they were bare except for a few drawings his cousin Rose had sent him, taped above his bed – Rose, who he would go ahead and say was both his favorite cousin and his best friend. 

Rose would have a better reaction for sure. Moving into his own room, Albus sat down, pulled out a sheet of paper and a quill, and began to write. 

“Dear Rose,

“I finally got my Hogwarts letter – I guess that means you got yours too. Not that I’m surprised about you or anything, we all kind of knew you’d be going to Hogwarts because of that time when you made all the flowers bloom early. But I was a bit nervous about mine, because I never did anything like that. You know how it is. James didn’t seem all that excited when I told him, but he’s been making me worried since he got home from his first year. I was a bit confused about that. 

“But it’s okay, because I have it now! And I’m really excited for Hogwarts – we’re going to have such a good time. We’ll both be in Gryffindor, with any luck, and then we’ll have all the adventures like Mum and Dad and Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron had. I can’t wait.

“Dad’s going to be home from work soon and I’m going to get to tell him all about it – this is going to be the best year ever. Promise to sit with me on the Hogwarts Express? It’ll be a lot less scary if you’re there too. 

“Love, Albus.” 

He stopped, reread what he’d written, and then added a quick post-script. 

“PS: Don’t worry, I’m sure we won’t get sorted into Slytherin.” 

He was folding up the letter when he felt the need to add – 

“PPS: At least I’m pretty sure.” 

You know, just to be on the safe side. Knock on wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Albus is the hardest to write of all...) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Alleyways and Trains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After shopping, goodbyes, and preparations, Sherlock and John find themselves going through their own sets of struggles on the Hogwarts Express.

Looking back, the rest of the summer was  a complete blur for John – it hadn’t taken long for Mrs. Watson to decide what to do about the whole “letter” situation. They travelled into the city in search of answers about Diagon Alley. John had been prepared to dismiss the entire event as an elaborate prank – perhaps one concocted by Harry. That was much simpler, after all. However, to his surprise – and Harry’s dismay – the instructions on how to get into Diagon Alley were relatively straightforward to follow, and soon they had found themselves converting money (a whole different currency, he wasn’t looking forward to learning that) and shopping for supplies.

His mother had bought most of his school supplies for him in advance against the upcoming year’s allowance. John thought wistfully about how much allowance he would be missing as they bought books, robes, cauldrons, and wand (blackthorn with a unicorn hair core, and all John could wonder was whether or not the hair had come from a real unicorn).

As a gift, aside from allowance and in advance of all holidays, much to John’s surprise, Mrs. Watson had bought him an owl. He would never forget that moment, when they’d walked into the Emporium and she’d said, “Go ahead and pick out whichever you’d like.” He could have spent hours there – and he almost did, until he made eye contact with a beautiful Barred owl. Her brown feathers alternated delicately between lighter and darker, and her expression was gentle but wise.

“This is the one,” he had said, quite decidedly. And that had been that.

Now, he found himself seated awkwardly on the Hogwarts Express, across from a pretty but quiet girl who had introduced herself as Sarah and asked if he was also a first year. John had merely nodded, and continued staring at the floor of the train. Getting onto the Hogwarts Express has been terrifying – and he was already missing home quite a bit. He even missed Harry, as wretched as she could be sometimes.

There was a knock on the door. An enthusiastic boy poked his head in, clearly aware that this compartment only had two occupants. “Ahoy there,” he said, with a grin. His blond curls were a bit fly-away, John couldn’t help but noticing. Overall the boy looked a bit unkempt.

“I’m Beverley, Beverley Creevey – you can call me Bev – do you mind if I sit here? A lot of the other compartments are full.”

Sarah nodded, and introduced herself the same way she had introduced herself to John, with a slight addition: “My name is Sarah Sawyer, and this is John Watson. Are you a first year as well?”

“Yup,” he said. “Seems like I’ve been waiting forever to come to Hogwarts – my dad went here. And my uncle.” He paused, for a moment receding into thought. But then the excited, friendly expression returned to his face. “They were both in Gryffindor. Do you know what houses you want to be sorted into? If I’m not in Gryffindor I think I might just drop out. But I guess as long as I’m not Slytherin…”

This was very confusing and concerning for John. He’d heard mentions of Hogwarts houses while his family was out school shopping, and in discussion while waiting for the train, but he still had no idea what everyone was talking about. Sarah was already matter-of-factly answering Beverley’s question, though, and the last thing John wanted was to look like he didn’t know what was going on.

“Actually, I’d kind of like to be placed in Ravenclaw,” Sarah said confidently. “I think I would do well with the more studious atmosphere – I’m really going to want to focus in on my magical studies, you know.”

They both turned to look expectantly at John, who had never wished so violently that he could melt into his seat.

“I don’t…really have a preference,” he said, finally. “I think they all sound pretty good.” 

“But you know where you think you’ll get placed. Deep down. You have a bit of an idea, don’t you?”

Beverley, it seemed, would not let the issue go. So – although John did not feel that he much matched the boy’s enthusiasm, or Sarah’s smug confidence, he made a decision between the both of them, and said finally, “Gryffindor. I think maybe I would be placed in Gryffindor.”

Sarah let out a snort of laughter, and John felt his face flush crimson. Clearly this was the wrong answer, and he was mortified. Beverley, however, seemed pleased. “Maybe we’ll both get lucky,” he said, and took that moment to sit down beside John, where he promptly began to whistle amiably.

Sarah swung her feet up onto her still-otherwise-unoccupied seat and pulled out a book. As she began to read, John stared out the window and wished himself already arrived at Hogwarts. He honestly wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that neither of his seatmates were much interested in conversation. He got the feeling that Sarah would just judge him for not having the proper priorities, and that even if he tried to strike up conversation with Beverley, he would not get very many words in edgewise. It somehow didn’t feel worth the effort.

With a small, almost inaudible sigh, John simply continued to stare out the window. As he watched the countryside passing by, he wanted nothing more than to turn the whole train around and go straight home. He would walk in the door and say, “Only joking, Mother, Harry – I’m not going to be a wizard, I’m going to be ordinary, and stay right here.”

If only they would have let him.

* * *

On the other end of the train, Sherlock Homes was having an entirely different sort of experience, though not at all more pleasant. Having arranged his trunk and his owl and all of his belongings, he had promptly been swept up by Mycroft, who had been organizing students up until the moment when the train departed from the platform.

“It’s part of my responsibility as Head Boy,” he’d explained importantly to no one in particular. Then he had said nothing more. Mycroft did not believe in unnecessary words, though self-praise did always seem necessary. Sherlock had merely rolled his eyes. He was already trying to distance himself as much from Mycroft as possible, but there hadn’t seemed to be a way to fight back as Mycroft put an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders and maneuvered him into a seat. “Can’t have you getting into trouble,” was the reasoning behind that decision.

Frowning stormily to himself, Sherlock refused to make eye contact with Mycroft and would not respond to any attempts at conversation. Mycroft gave up without much attempt in the first place. The relationship between the brothers could be a bit rocky at times – most of the time – and neither of them anticipated much improvement any time soon.

The experience in Diagon Alley had not been much better either. All of Sherlock’s supplies, purchased new and of the highest possible quality, had been obtained with a great deal more fuss than either of the brothers found necessary. Their mother had taken it upon herself to make her younger son going to Hogwarts into the biggest possible deal, and had wasted most of their shopping day weeping over every purchase. “So grown up,” she had choked into her handkerchief. “My little Sherly, so grown up…”

Despite Mycroft’s unpleasant and forced company, Sherlock had to admit that the quiet motion of the train was much preferable. And he did appreciate the charm his mother had used to help him pack all of his books in one bag with no extra burden. He would set up his own small library as soon as he had his dorm. Doubtless, the library at Hogwarts would be a fantastic resource for his studies, but at the age of eleven, Sherlock had already managed to obtain his own collection of books that he would prefer to keep by his side. One never could tell when such things would suddenly become incredibly useful.

He crossed his arms and began reciting the encyclopedia in his head. He wondered how far he would get before the train arrived at Hogwarts, but he didn’t particularly care. He wondered if he would be sorted into Ravenclaw, the way his family hoped. This he cared a bit more about. It was just sort of a given that he would be placed in the house known for its intellect. Although Mycroft was fond of pointing out that Sherlock's knowledge of the world was still rather lacking in comparison to his own, Sherlock knew that his brain was different than any and everyone else's. As much as he hoped that Ravenclaw could provide some like-minded people, he didn't feel very hopeful about it. And as he once again found himself wishing he could be eaten by a spider, or flung from a rooftop, or anything other than the inevitable meeting with Professor Eaton the Hufflepuff head of house and Deputy Headmistress, that Mycroft was  _certain_ to arrange, he couldn't help but think perhaps it wouldn't be bad at all to be sorted into a house that  _wasn't_ Ravenclaw. 

By leaving home to go to school he'd already escaped his mother - perhaps if he were in Slytherin, or Gryffindor, he would be able to at least in part escape his brother as well. But he didn't really want to be in Gryffindor - lots of air-headed overly-brave buffoons, in his opinion. At least from what he knew of noted Gryffindors from the history books. 

Perhaps Slytherin. Sherlock would be quite content if he were to be sorted into Slytherin. He could imagine the shock on poor Mummy's face. She would be quite beside herself. 

Yes. Slytherin would be quite nice indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand after over a year away, I'm back! I was having a lot of trouble getting motivated to write the pre-Hogwarts work, so I've sort of crammed into one briefer chapter, and we'll move on to the sorting from here, and then get the school year started! I'm hoping to update more consistently in the future, so I hope you'll find that to your liking. Thanks and love if you're still ready to read this after I've taken so stinking long to actually write more of it, I still love this concept and plan to run with it! (Also I'm hoping to make the chapters a bit longer once the initial set-up is over.)


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